


The Great Bridge of Myrddin

by Metallic_Sweet



Series: Wear Your Colours [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Magic, Courtly Love, Cultural Differences, During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Family Issues, Fictional Religion & Theology, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra, Power Dynamics, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22622395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metallic_Sweet/pseuds/Metallic_Sweet
Summary: In the fall of Garreg Mach, Lorenz reached out and doomed his House.Or, where House Gloucester stands inWear Your Colours.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan, Ferdinand von Aegir/Lorenz Hellman Gloucester
Series: Wear Your Colours [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1527893
Comments: 22
Kudos: 141





	The Great Bridge of Myrddin

**Author's Note:**

> Ties into chapter 4/sections 9 to 11 in [_Wear Your Colours_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20627687/chapters/49305437)

**...**

“Lorenz,” his mother says.

She speaks in a manner that Lorenz wishes was unfamiliar. Her gaze does not stray from her cup of Bergamot tea. She does not have any great magical talent. She has, instead, an excess of good sense. 

“Do you understand what you have done?” 

**Lorenz.**

Once upon a time, a mage was born into the House Gloucester. 

The difficulty of Margharita’s pregnancy was due, the healers said, to her lack of Crest, but Margharita spat in their faces and sent them away. She called for her sister, Helen, who had traveled for a time in the far north to Sreng and Albinea. Helen’s arrival astride her strange, feral-looking pegasus added to the Leicester rumour mill that the Countess Gloucester was, in fact, a witch. 

“Of course I am a witch!” Margharita howled as the babe in her belly kicked up yet another great fuss. “So is my dragon-cursed husband with his bloody Sight!” 

“You don’t help yourself, screaming your opinions at everyone for everything,” Helen pointed out as she helped her sister drink a glass of water. 

“They are not opinions, they are the truth!” Margharita snarled after swallowing several mouthfuls of water. “Where is my stupid husband? If Francis is still lollygagging over baptismal vestments, I will rend his empty head from his neck!”

There was never a fear that Margharita wouldn’t be able to deliver the babe. She was, like all of the fading Leonster stock, very strong in her early-twenties prime. She would have liked to hold off on having a baby, but her great strength and endurance indicated she took well after her Leonster blood. She, like her forebears, were doomed to fade by their mid-thirties, lingering if she was lucky into her forties. 

It made the previous healers’ nattering about Crests even more infuriating. 

Margharita knew, in the absolute way she simply did, that her babe carried both innate magic and the Gloucester Crest. After the excruciating birth, Francis convinced her to allow a Church healer to see their little Lorenz to confer blessings of the Goddess. Margharita punched the man after he, after conferring the blessing, turned to Francis and said:

“A minor Crest! What a relief you must feel!”

“Beast!” Margharita cursed, clutching the now wailing Lorenz to her breast and grabbing for her bedside daggers. “Get out of this House! You insulting praying mantis!”

“I’m sorry,” Francis said later after the man had been hurried out of the gates and Lorenz been calmed Helen and a meal. “I told him to hold his tongue –”

“You had better hold your tongue,” Margharita snarled, slapping Francis’s reaching hand away; she would not let her husband hold Lorenz for several days yet. “Let us hope that it _is_ your blood Lorenz takes after. I do not wish to rush to find our son a wife to bury him.” 

Margharita got this wish. Whether it was by luck or by some work of the Lorenz’s minor Crest of Gloucester, Lorenz showed none of the early extreme strength and endurance of Leonster. This, in Lorenz’s first year of life, was Margharita’s greatest achievement and consolation aside from her son’s extremely normal development and good health. Francis was, of course, inordinately pleased that Lorenz could do magic. It was not a common trait in either of their bloodlines, and Margharita suspected he had felt very much alone. 

“Magic grows stronger with age,” Francis said as Margharita nursed Lorenz before bed. “He will be strong long into his old age.” 

“Then you need to build this House better for him,” Margharita said, not unkindly. “I won’t be here, and neither will you after a point. Hopefully, he can find someone to stay by his side.”

Francis breathed in. He laid his chin on the crown of her head. At this angle, she could not see where he was looking, but it didn’t matter. 

In her arms, Lorenz was warm and healthy. 

“I hope,” Margharita said, very softly, “you live long with those you love by your side.” 

All parents have dreams for their children. 

Francis wanted a mage. Margharita wanted a legacy. They both wanted an heir to inherit House Gloucester and keep its walls solid and people hale. They adored Lorenz, and he knew it. They doted on him, although Francis taught him perhaps a bit too much of the old magicks and Margharita stomped too quickly upon childish fancies. They did what they did because they knew the world was harsh and could change very quickly. 

They wanted their son, a mage by birth and noble by name, to have the very best and to live as long as he could. He was born in their hopes and dreams. 

Fódlan is not a fairytale land. 

They knew this well. 

**Claude.**

When the war comes, Lorenz witnesses two events that change him irrevocably: 

Claude, in tears, tearing a gold chain from his own hair and pressing Dimitri’s fist closed around it as Dedue drags Dimitri away. 

Hilda, in an unconscious mess of blood and broken bones, dragged from the field by Raphael and Lysithea. 

He registers these two events as if they happen in front of him at the same time. In reality, he sees Claude’s action first before Raphael and Lysithea cross his field of vision in a hurry. At that moment, Lorenz could not move. He stands frozen, staring straight ahead to where Claude wept inconsolably. He stares long enough that Lysithea has already stolen a pegasus to carry Hilda away by the time Lorenz could have roused himself to look. He doesn’t look, though. He learns about those events months later when the world is already changed. 

Instead, he watches Claude rouse himself. Swipe furiously at his eyes. He turns and raises his head. To Lorenz. Claude’s eyes widen. For a moment, he is bare. There is so much fear. 

Something that Lorenz would not come to understand for months yet stirs. 

He surges forward. Grabs Claude. He drags him around and against Lorenz’s chest. He looks around, suddenly urgent, and spots Marianne and Leonie approaching with a highbred horse. 

“Come,” Lorenz hears himself saying as he drags Claude towards the horse; he knows he is doing this and speaking, but it all feels unreal and distant and too bright and too close, “if it is not safe to travel further, House Gloucester will winter you while Duke Goneril rallies the call to arms.”

 _What am I saying?_ a part of Lorenz boggles as he helps Claude onto the horse, which has the brand of House Blaiddyd on the flank. _I can’t make these promises. I am speaking nonsense._

 _We are stealing Dimitri’s horse,_ another part of Lorenz screams. _Claude has been courting Dimitri and we are stealing his horse._

_I think I killed someone,_ a far more dangerous part of Lorenz he fundamentally cannot acknowledge wails; it is the same part shrieking: _What if Hilda dies?_

“My horse was shot,” he says instead after Claude is mounted and secure. 

“Take Dorte,” Marianne says, and she is already dismounting; her eyes are red from crying; she is the daughter and heir of Margrave Edmund; Lorenz realises that she is incredibly brave; “I can take another.”

“Thank you,” Lorenz says, even as Leonie and Claude both gauwk. “I will see her returned to you safe and unharmed.” 

Marianne simply inclines her head. Fresh tears slip down her cheeks as Lorenz mounts Dorte, who saddle isn’t a good fit for him. He reaches out and lifts the reins of Dimitri’s horse with his right hand. Claude finally stirs again, reaching forward to take them. He stares at Lorenz as if he has never seen him before. 

Lorenz wonders what he sees. For the first time since he left home to attend the Royal School of Sorcery, he has no idea what he looks like. What he is doing. 

_I think I killed someone_

“Ride in front of me,” Lorenz says as he turns east towards home. “We must be swift.” 

“Yes,” Claude says as he moves Dorte forward. “Yes.” 

Lorenz lets Claude gain a horse width before falling into pace behind. He chances a glance back to see Marianne climbing onto Leonie’s horse. Marianne buries her face into Leonie’s hair as they ride north. They haven stolen a horse with the brand of the Knights of Seiros. 

He tears his gaze away. Faces front. He looks at the back of Claude’s head. There is blood in his hair where he tore the courting chain out. 

Lorenz can’t believe this is happening. 

Things fall apart. 

They ride for six days and nights. They cannot stay at any inn because nowhere is safe. Claude is more prepared for these circumstances than Lorenz. He knows how to forage for roots and weeds, and he teaches Lorenz how to fashion arrows from twigs. Lorenz shows Claude how to light a smokeless Fire. They hunt a couple of rabbits and a sad, injured bird, and Lorenz eats rats and mice for the first time. 

They don’t speak except when necessary. They sleep during high noon and dead of night, traveling carefully to avoid everyone from panicked refugees to several Imperial patrols. As they ride into the sunrise on the fifth day, Claude surprises Lorenz by expressing gratefulness for his Crest. 

“I took a blow to the head at Garreg Mach,” he says, very softly. “It wouldn’t have killed me, but…”

He shrugs. Lorenz swallows. That explains why there was so much blood when they washed themselves in the river on the second day. 

“I killed someone,” Lorenz says, and Claude looks back at him, wide-eyed. “That is how I lost my short lance. I knocked a pegasus rider from her seat and her skull split on the ground below.” 

Claude blinks. They slow enough that Lorenz can bring Dorte into step with him. He watches Claude’s jaw clench. Unclench. 

“Was that,” and Claude has never seemed more human than now, “the first time you killed someone?” 

Lorenz looks down. At his hands wrapped around Dorte’s reins. 

“Yes,” he says and he doesn’t bother hiding how upset he is. “That was my maiden battle.”

In the aftermath:

Whatever lecture Lorenz expected from his parents never occurs. 

The morning after Lorenz and Claude’s arrival, the body of Duke Riegan is delivered to House Gloucester’s northern gate. He is decapitated, and his hands and feet detached from their limbs. The messengers throw the pieces from the back of a horse, and the gatekeepers are so shocked they fail to give chase. They are young, and they have never seen such cruelty. 

“Disgusting,” Margharita says when the report comes to her and Lorenz at their early breakfast table; Francis is already rising to make sure no one gets to Claude, who is still asleep. “Francis, you must do better.” 

“Yes, Rita,” Francis says because it’s true. 

Lorenz mops up his split tea. He is very careful not to look at either of his parents as his mother takes her seat back at the table and his father moves to fetch Claude. He has long suspected his father was involved with the former Duke Riegan’s death, and that his mother likely planned the finer points. Ignatz and Raphael have confirmed some of the details, although Lorenz doubts they fully understand the breadth of that machination. They hadn’t appreciated Lorenz’s inquiry, even when he attempted to be gentle. 

He has come to understand he is not a gentle person. There is no way he could be. Neither of his parents, outside of their little family, care for the emotional impact of their ambitions. They turned a blind eye to the affairs of House Ordelia and have cared little for what the Countess Kupula, with her eight children, and Margrave Edmund have done in the struggling, devout north. They have made House Gloucester to stand on its own, even without the safety of the Roundtable. 

Lorenz is also beginning to realise this is where he may differ from his parents. 

“Lorenz,” his mother says.

She speaks in a manner that Lorenz wishes was unfamiliar. When he looks at her, her gaze does not stray from her cup of Bergamot tea. She does not have great conventional magical talent, which is why she agreed with Francis to send Lorenz to the Royal School of Sorcery and again to Garreg Mach. His education, she hoped, would be more well-rounded than Francis’s folk magic and her own an excess of good sense. 

She is also, from the thinning in her fingers, running out of time. Lorenz’s heart sinks even as she sips her tea. 

“Do you understand what you have done?” 

Lorenz swallows. He looks down. The linen he used to mope his spilt tea is still in his hand. The bergamot was too strong for his taste, but his mother likes strongly-flavoured things. Claude and her will get along on this. 

He did not think about that when he reached out to Claude on the battlefield. 

“I am beginning to,” he says because it is the truth. 

Margharita sighs. She sets her cup down. Lorenz raises his eyes to look at her. She frowns and judges him with narrowed eyes. 

“All mortals are born fools,” she says before she lifts her hand and waves him away. “Follow your father and take responsibility for your actions.”

Lorenz swallows. 

Inclines his head.

“Yes, Mother,” he says, and goes. 

**Ferdinand.**

The trouble is:

Lorenz likes Ferdinand. 

He likes him rather differently from anyone else. Lorenz has been aware of his attraction from the first time they met in Garreg Mach. Ferdinand has the upright carriage of a true and proper noble, which Lorenz has been trained from birth to recognise and appreciate. He is hardworking, earnest, and thoughtful, which are qualities that Lorenz actively finds attractive. He has a keen singing voice and is quick to laugh at a good joke. 

He is, thankfully, also completely oblivious to Lorenz’s feelings. He is far more attuned to the intricacies of Adrestian court gestures and delicate passion poetics than Alliance rhyming games and scripture acrostics. He and Hubert did a good job of hiding it, but Lorenz had spotted Hubert slipping personal letters to Ferdinand’s mail more than once. Ferdinand, to Lorenz’s knowledge, had never responded, but Lorenz had assumed with Hubert’s dedication that it would only be a matter of time. Ferdinand was, therefore, a safe object for Lorenz’s fancy because he was, in all manners, off-limits. 

But then it is a snowy, awful day and Lorenz is staring at a different Ferdinand beside Claude at the mouth of the Bridge. He comes with a cohort of both military and civilians bearing Aegir insignia but no colours. Ferdinand does not respond to their herald’s horn, nor to their messenger, nor Lorenz’s call. Claude’s sight is better, but he doesn’t tell Lorenz that Ferdinand is injured. 

“I’m not sure he heard you,” he says, which makes Lorenz’s stomach roll over itself. “Let’s ride out a bit and try again. Just you and I.”

It is unwise. Lorenz doesn’t know the capabilities of Ferdinand’s accompaniment, and Ferdinand might have been with the Blue Lions in their later academy days, but he is von Aegir. It is Lorenz’s duty to make sure Claude lives long enough to become Duke Riegan, and that should take precedence. Ferdinand, like this, should be treated as a threat. 

Lorenz, as he moves his horse to a slow step onto the Bridge, is coming to understand he may be ruled by his heart. 

Ferdinand does not move as they approach. He has holes in his arming doublet. He is underdressed for the winter weather and wears no mail. The horse he rides is unfamiliar. He smells like magic, but no magic that Lorenz has ever smelt. Claude does not seem to notice, but Lorenz’s nasal passages begin to burn. His heart hammers. 

Ferdinand’s eyes are wide and blown and Seeing. 

“Ferdinand?” Lorenz starts, unable to hide his alarm. “What’s going on?”

“Lorenz, Claude,” Ferdinand says, and he sounds manic and nothing like the Ferdinand Lorenz loved to sit with for long hours over tea. “I am. Sorry? We are—well, I understand, yes, quite unusual. Uh.”

Lorenz opens his mouth. Nearly gags.

Ferdinand’s strange magic fills his mouth and throat and lungs and threatens to choke him. 

“Aegir has been razed,” Ferdinand screams, and Lorenz can feel it; there is blood magic at work; it is in these very words. “I am sorry, please, I have nothing of value to offer, but I beseech you, _please_ , shelter for my people!”

Blood magic works better the more living beings under the user’s power.

Ferdinand has brought several hundred people.

“Ferdinand,” Claude says, and he cannot feel it; he cannot know; “Please, calm down –” 

“Shelter,” Lorenz says.

Claude turns his head in surprise. Lorenz realises he has grasped Claude’s elbow. 

He does not say, _Ferdinand is my friend._

He also does not say, _if we turn him away, we will force him to fight us, and we will all die._

Lorenz has no choice.

“House Gloucester will give shelter.” 

Claude’s mouth opens, but he stills his tongue. Shuts it. He turns his attention back to Ferdinand, who has not wavered but is looking progressively more wild. Lorenz watches Claude swallow. The brief strain at his jaw. 

“House Gloucester will give shelter to you and yours,” Claude says, and Lorenz draws his hand back from Claude’s elbow as they watch Ferdinand blink for the first time in the encounter. “You may cross.”

But Ferdinand does not move forward. He does not calm. Instead, his expression goes curiously blank. Lorenz’s mouth fills with vomit that he barely manages to swallow back as Ferdinand lifts his right arm to motion to the older man and woman who stand closest. 

“Take the injured, children, and elderly across first in that order,” Ferdinand says, and Lorenz knows for certain from the way the man and the woman incline their heads to him that they have made him oaths. “Make sure everyone has adequate coin for lodging, food, and any other needs.” 

“Yes, my lord,” they say and Lorenz turns his head to be ill in the snow.

It is terrible. Claude and a squad of Gloucester troops goes with the man and woman to assist in finding lodging in the town for over six hundred people. Lorenz stays on the Bridge as Ferdinand oversees the passage of his people. For they are his people. Lorenz can smell Ferdinand’s magic on every individual that carries the Aegir insignia. 

It is not magic under the eye of the Goddess. 

Lorenz doesn’t want to believe this is happening.

“Duke Aegir,” a man wearing smithing gear and carrying an unsheathed sword says when he moves with what Lorenz assumes is his elderly parents over the Bridge, “where will we find you?”

It is happening. That is the worst part.

“In my House,” Lorenz says because Ferdinand doesn’t respond immediately; too much of himself is active in his magic; the man does not seem put off; Lorenz senses Ferdinand has been like this for a long time; “Ferdinand, you are my guest now.”

Ferdinand looks at Lorenz. Even though Lorenz does not fully meet his gaze, he can hear the distant crackling. Lightning high over the sky.

Lorenz was born a mage. He knows innate magicks. He knows when to be afraid.

“I am in your debt,” Ferdinand says, odd and bland.

Lorenz swallows. There is no vomit. Just dry mouth and the prickling of Ferdinand’s magic in his throat. 

He has no choice. And, even as Ferdinand bears down upon him, no resentment. If Lorenz was in his position, he can only hope to do half of what Ferdinand has done.

“There is no debt,” he says, and he tries with all his might not to stumble over these words. “Your requests are reasonable. Please accept the hospitality of House Gloucester.”

Ferdinand stares. Lorenz, against his own sense of self-preservation, holds his gaze. He can see, through a pale orange veil, clouds and open sky.

It makes no sense. Lorenz has never seen Ferdinand on wyvern-back. He is a horse lord of Aegir and the defunct Bergliez cadet branch, Este. His mother –

Lorenz’s stomach drops.

“I accept,” Ferdinand says, and Lorenz wants to scream because this is madness, blasphemous, and sacrilege. “I am grateful to be a guest in House Gloucester.”

Lorenz may be stupid.

He considers this as he rides beside Ferdinand towards the House gates. He considers it deeper when Ferdinand, in the courtyard, dismounts his horse but is reluctant to part with his weapons. Lorenz doesn’t force the issue, but the axe is alarmingly large. It likely weighs over a quarter of Ferdinand’s weight. Off horseback, Lorenz is suddenly aware that Ferdinand looks as starved as his people. 

“How long have you been on the road?” he asks as they enter the western hall.

Ferdinand doesn’t respond immediately. He stares around the hallway as they walk, noting the stairwells, windows, doors, and servants doors. Lorenz motions for a couple of approaching attendants to stay away. He doesn’t think Ferdinand is dangerous now anymore than he ever has, but this is not his friend. 

“I don’t know,” Ferdinand says, finally turning some attention back to Lorenz as they reach the main stairwell. “It’s true winter now, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Lorenz says, and he knows he cannot hide his fear now. “Here, we have a room near the conservatory. It is very comfortable; I am sure the hearth is already going. Would you –”

“Lorenz,” Ferdinand says, and he does not pause in climbing the stairs at Lorenz’s side, but Lorenz nearly does, “what day is today? My father forfeit his claim to our House on the seventh day of the Ethereal Moon. I made a distribution of coin to survivors two days following. I need to date today’s distribution of Aegir coin to prevent counterfeit.”

They reach the top of the stairs. Lorenz’s mouth is very dry. He clears his throat and hopes that one of the attendants he sent away has gone for his parents or aunt. He hopes Claude is not still out coordinating lodging in the town. He should have had the sense to send for more assistance.

“It’s the fourteenth day of the Pegasus Moon,” Lorenz says.

Ferdinand does stop then. He blinks. Not from surprise. Rather, the lack of it. 

When he looks back to Lorenz:

“I am suddenly aware that I am very tired,” Ferdinand says, and Lorenz realises somehow this was his limit; he is about to faint. “I do apologise.” 

It is a small mercy that the guest room off the conservatory has already been prepared. Lorenz isn’t sure if it was because Claude sent a messenger or if his parents, in their wisdoms, foresaw its use. Lorenz, after calling for help, half-carries Ferdinand and his terrifying axe through the hall and into the guest room. His father arrives quickly after. It is fortuitous. Lorenz and a senior attendant, Moreen, are about to try to convince Ferdinand to disarm again. 

“Duke Aegir,” Francis says, and the formal tone stirs Ferdinand from his half-consciousness between Lorenz and Moreen, “welcome to House Gloucester. I promise that you and yours are safe within this House and its walls. May I assist you with weapon storage?” 

“Ah,” Ferdinand says, and he sags, more relieved and himself than he has been the entire day, “yes. It is very heavy. Please be careful.” 

It is exceedingly heavy. Lorenz and Francis have to work together to set it safely against the bedroom wall and the weapons stand that Lorenz recognises from the training grounds. Helen arrives as Moreen begins to help Ferdinand undress, carrying her entire kit. Ferdinand stills at her appearance in the doorway, his hands clenching shut his undertunic. 

“This is my sister-in-law, Helen,” Francis says when Ferdinand takes a full step back from both Moreen and Lorenz. 

“I am a healer,” Helen says as Ferdinand eyes them all like a caged animal. “I trained in Albinea and Sreng before joining the Gloucester household.”

“Let us help you,” Lorenz begs. 

For a full minute, Ferdinand does not move. When he does, he takes a second step back. A third. He sits down on the side of the bed. He doesn’t take his eyes off of them. Lorenz watches how he wills himself to uncurl his fingers from his tunic. 

“I apologise,” he says, barely audible and strained. “I am very tired and not myself.” 

“These are extraordinary circumstances,” Lorenz says, barely restraining himself from stepping forward again. 

“Yes,” Ferdinand says before pulling his tunic over his head. 

It is bad. 

Lorenz is glad he finished vomiting on the Bridge. Most of Ferdinand’s body is mottled with bruises. The partially healed arrow wounds are infected where they haven’t healed. The tunic must have been fairly fresh since none of the weeping puss and dark blood has noticeably stained it. There is only one patch of skin that has not been recently marked. Lorenz never saw Ferdinand in the baths or the sauna, and he never disrobed beyond opening his uniform jacket. Now he knows why. 

“Pegasus mark,” Francis breathes. 

It is unmistakable. Ferdinand’s right shoulder has the distinctive, netted bite mark that Lorenz has seen in his father’s collection of grimoires. From the paleness and thinness of the netting, it is a very old mark. One that Ferdinand grew up bearing and came into as his body settled into its adulthood. It will blossom as he approaches his prime and bloom as he carries out its will. It is why Ferdinand wields blood magic like an extension of his own breathing. 

“I don’t need you two here,” Helen says, opening her kit and eyeing the bright red and puss-filled lower arrow wound with trepidation. “Brother, Lorenz: get out. Moreen, bring me boiled water.” 

“No –” Lorenz starts.

His father closes his hand around Lorenz’s elbow.

“Get out,” Helen says, sharper. 

They go. 

Lorenz allows his father to take him to his parents’ reception room. 

Margharita is there. She sits by the hearth, a blanket over her legs. She shuts her book as they enter at a clip.

“Ah,” she says, and frowns. 

Francis lets go of Lorenz’s elbow. He shuts the door behind them. Takes a deep breath and straightens. For a long moment, Lorenz stares at his father, who stares without seeing his own door. He takes in the set of his jaw. Shapely and sharp at the chin. Lorenz took after his father in all ways to his mother’s relief. 

Except:

“I,” Francis says, turning towards his work chest, “have something I must give you now.” 

Margharita sighs. Lorenz looks to her. She stares at the hearth, still frowning. Francis opens his work chest and pulls out a small drawstring pouch. Lorenz watches him straighten, feeling as if he is once again looking at Claude and Dimitri and Dedue. At Hilda and Lysithea and Raphael. 

The sequence of events does not entirely matter. The fact they happen does. 

Francis reaches out. Lifts Lorenz’s hands. He places the pouch in them and opens the string. 

Lorenz looks down. 

“When you were born,” Francis says as Lorenz stares at a pile of magpie bones, “I was gifted two of these birds. We offered the first, Ull, to the Goddess for your protection. The second was Scato. When you did not immediately return last week, I offered her flesh and feathers for your safe return. 

“I now realise,” and Lorenz looks at his father, who for the first time does not meet his gaze, “I was rash and over-confident in my estimation of what gifts she was worth. For her flesh, she brought you Duke Riegan, who is made of earth. For her feathers, she brought you Duke Aegir, who wields the sky. I give you now her bones in hopes she brings you wisdom in these evil days.” 

Lorenz blinks. Swallows.

He knows what his father is saying. 

This is the end of his childhood. 

The end of his parents’ dream. 

“Thank you,” Lorenz says.

He lifts his head. His father does not look at him. Instead, Lorenz’s gaze finds his mother. She stares at him from her seat by the hearth. She never let him run to her when he wanted sympathy or comfort. She always put him on his feet and told him to stand on his own. His father would watch and smile and never interfere. Back then, Lorenz wished, childishly, that his parents could be different. 

He cannot change them. Lorenz understands that now. 

He has the choice to change himself. 

He inclines his head, places Scato’s bones back in the bag, and leaves his parents’ room. 

In Lorenz’s last weakness:

He lets himself into the conservatory. It is quiet now and lamps are burnt out. He stands only for a short moment before letting himself into the guest room. 

Ferdinand is asleep in the guest bed, illuminated by the dying light of the hearth. 

Lorenz breathes in. Out.

Someone has to hold the Bridge. Someone has to keep the House. Someone must provide shelter to those who ask. Someone must hold the wall against the battery of war. 

Gazing upon Ferdinand’s sleeping face: 

Lorenz comes into himself all in this quiet moment of understanding. 

House Gloucester will not fall apart. Lorenz may have doomed his House with his bleeding heart, but it is still his House. So long as he lives, those he loves will have safe harbour. Within these walls, they will always have a warm meal and a place to rest. Lorenz may promise this. His parents have given their blessing. 

House Gloucester will stand until Lorenz does not.


End file.
